Take-off was delayed ‘due to staff shortages’, meaning that Theresa’s plane didn’t touch the runway at Nice Côte d’Azur airport till a few minutes before 1 a.m. Despite sitting squashed between a boy who spent the whole journey crunching his way through jumbo packs of crisps, and a woman listening to a beeping kind of electro-pop music through leaky headphones, for most of the flight Theresa managed to get some sleep, slightly relieved by the knowledge that it was not some fat, bald old paedophile who had lured Chloe away, just a boy at her school. But teenagers were unpredictable and the situation was far from over.
Bleary-eyed, she shuffled through customs, and went out on to the forecourt where she climbed into a cab to take her home to Bellevue-sur-Mer. She knew that a taxi ride of that distance would cost around 100 euros, but at this time of night what other way did she have to get home?
Chloe’s disappearance was turning out to be not only a disturbing but an expensive business, to be sure.
The ride home was much too fast and swervy for Theresa’s liking. But, when the driver eventually skidded to a stop outside her front door, she found she didn’t have the right money in small notes. The driver claimed not to have the right change, leaving Theresa no option but to overtip him wildly.
She watched the tail lights of the taxi disappear up the hill as she let herself into the dark flat.
It was strange. Even before she stepped inside she thought that the place felt different.
Above all, there was a lingering smell of aftershave.
She flicked on the lights.
As she shoved the door open, a pile of rose petals spread themselves across the Welcome mat.
How had they got there? Had someone been in here while she was away? Who had keys?
Only Sally, and she wasn’t the rose-petal-delivery type.
Or had they just been emptied through the letterbox?
Nervously Theresa moved further into the flat. ‘Hello?’
Tiptoeing around, slamming open the wardrobe doors, she checked every cranny to make sure she was alone.
She inspected the small back yard, too, even though the only ways anyone could get into it were by coming through her flat as she had done, or by jumping from a window in the Hotel Astra or the upstairs flat.
She peered up into the darkness. Most of the windows which looked out on the courtyard were small – probably lavatory windows, except in the hotel; but you’d really have to be very fit to make that jump and land one piece. And then, how would you get up there again?
As Theresa moved back inside, still looking up behind her towards the yard, she heard a great thump coming from somewhere near the front door.
She froze.
What was that?
Breathing heavily, she took a few tentative steps into the living room.
Another thump.
Then a blood-curdling scream.
She dashed through the living room and stood beside the front door, ready to open up and run for it.
She could hear footsteps above her. She glanced at her watch. Almost 2 a.m.
Perhaps it was a tourist, renting the flat, packing for an early flight. They would have to leave soon if they were booked on the first flights out of Nice at 5 a.m.
A diabolic laugh from above.
What was going on?
She could hear a woman’s voice now, pleading. She sounded terrified.
The man laughed again and once more a loud thump.
Silence.
Barely daring to breathe, Theresa opened the latch on her front door and went out into the street to take a look up at the windows of the flat above.
The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of light spilled through the gap.
Theresa looked around her.
No one was in the street, and the lights in every building except the flat above her own were extinguished.
The only sound was the gentle wash of waves rattling the pontoon.
Should she go and knock at her upstairs neighbours’ door?
Where would that place her? What if he was in the middle of killing a woman? Would a murderer let her go so that she could run to the police?
On the other hand, what if it was a couple involved in some sex game? Everyone had read that Fifty Shades book. And Theresa had read that, since it first came out, sales of velvet handcuffs and whips had gone stratospheric …
The lights upstairs went off. Silence reigned. Whatever they had been up to, they were now clearly settling down for the night.
Theresa moved discreetly back into her own apartment.
Once safely inside, she went straight through to the bedroom and flopped down on the bed.
Her phone beeped.
She sat up and pulled it out of her handbag. It was a text from Imogen: ‘Have you arrived yet?’
Sally had tossed and turned for hours, blushing with horror at how small she felt whenever the Markhams mocked her. It was just like being back at school, being picked on by the playground bullies. But she had to get back the old rhino-hide. Just because these two treated her like a walking joke who’d been completely useless at the job, that wasn’t to say she hadn’t been a good actress. She had had nominations, won awards and been showered with wonderful reviews from national newspapers to prove it. So why did it matter so much?
Sally realised that it was because it affected her life now, her life here in Bellevue-sur-Mer. It was as though the Markhams had arrived here, moved among her friends and constructed a totally new past for her. And now her current friends looked at her differently.
She was disappointed in Benjamin.
He had not helped her situation by being quite so obsequious with them.
Sally turned over and curled up into a ball. She hadn’t felt so low since those grim days which followed her husband dying in his secretary’s bed.
If she hadn’t felt such emptiness, she would have cried herself to sleep. Instead she lay awake until she drifted off into a nightmare in which Odile de la Warr, wearing a black witch costume and armed with a pair of flashing silver Japanese kitchen knives, was chasing her through a dark, moonless forest.
The phone rang.
Sally opened her eyes, thankful to have escaped from the dream.
‘Allô?’
‘It’s William.’
Sally flopped back into the pillows, dreading what he had to say that was so important.
‘Well, dear, you made a right cock-up of tonight. Benjamin and I have been discussing it for the last hour, and we both feel assured that a good mention by Odile de la Warr in one of those local magazines would have got the whole project rolling again. Instead we get another anonymous one-star diatribe. Odile obviously hated the whole experience and, thanks to you, the night was a disaster . . . And now we’re a laughing stock. And, yes, Sally, before you jump in to make excuses for yourself, I do lay it all at your clumsy feet.’
Sally tried to get a word in, but William was on a roll.
‘And as for those two theatrical types with her . . . Handled properly they might have given us a bit of prestige too. Not to mention the faux pas of the night . . . What were you thinking letting those awful chavs in, and losing us a whole table for the last service? This is not working out, Sally. You’ve bolloxed up the Shore-to-Ship deliveries, you couldn’t hack it for your one night in the kitchen, and now you’ve proved you cannot manage the heat of working front of house. So tell me: what can you do?’
‘I don’t know why every disaster turns out to be my fault.’ Sally felt seriously aggrieved and wished they could be shot of the restaurant tonight and never have to set eyes upon it again. ‘I was too pressed. Where was Carol? That’s what I’d like to know. It was too much to manage on my own.’
‘Poor Carol is still stuck up in La Turbie.’
‘What on earth is she doing up there?’
‘That’s another thing which counts against you. You’ve broken the delivery van, putting an end to one of the most lucrative parts of our failing enterprise.’
‘What are you talking about now?’
‘The van broke down up in La Turbie. According to the man who came to fix it, “somebody” forgot to put in any oil.’
‘I did put in oil. Last week.’ Sally sat upright again. Why was Carol trying to frame her? She thought they were friends.
‘Well, there was none in the engine tonight, and as a result the gearbox or the bearings or the big end or something has gone to hell. My brain clouds over when anyone talks about technical things to do with cars. But I understand money and the repair bill comes to nine hundred euros plus tax.’
Sally gasped.
‘Exactly. That’s yet more dosh draining out of La Mosaïque’s dwindling coffers. Or should I say empty coffers. The only thing we appear to be accumulating at the moment is debt and bad will. And now the choice is a new van, or hiring one for the foreseeable future. Oh, and paying Carol’s hotel bill for tonight. She’s stuck. The last bus left La Turbie at six p.m. and there’s no other way home but taxi, which would cost double the price of the B&B.’
‘I don’t know what to say, William. I’m sorry. Really.’ Sally sighed. What else could she do? Tonight she hated everything and everyone, including herself. ‘If I had any money I’d resign my share right now and pay for my escape.’
‘Dream on, love. The only income you have is us. And until that van repair is paid off, your pay is docked. Face it, Sally. You are a flop. Anyway – see you tomorrow, if you can be arsed to get off your backside and come in to work.’
Sally put down the phone, laid her head back on the pillow and cursed the world.
Her phone rang again.
She picked up.
‘Just bugger off and leave me alone to get some sleep now, all right?’
‘Sally? It’s Theresa.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ For the moment Theresa’s predicament had entirely gone out of Sally’s head. ‘Any news of Chloe?’
‘No. But I’m back home. Down the road.’
Sally froze. She hoped this was not really bad news.
‘Chloe is somewhere here, in France. And we think she’s in this area. It turns out it was some schoolboy she’s run away with, not a bald fat man, after all. I know it doesn’t make it that much better, but at least it’s not some mad old paedophile.’
Sally wondered why Theresa was phoning at two in the morning to tell her this.
‘I just wondered, Sally.’ Theresa lowered her voice. ‘While I was away have you let anyone into my flat?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t give my keys to anyone?’
‘No. They’re hanging up in the cupboard in the restaurant cellar. I saw them there tonight. Someone had left me a pink rose and a heart.’
‘That’s strange,’ said Theresa. ‘That’s why I thought someone had been in my flat. There are pink rose petals by my door.’
‘Carol did see some man hovering around outside yesterday,’ said Sally. ‘He was worried about the acoustics or something.’
‘That might explain the noises, maybe. But not the rose petals.’
‘You don’t have a secret admirer?’
‘Not unless he’s keeping it a secret from me. Or has a key. You’re sure you haven’t lost mine, have you?’
‘I told you, they’re in the cellar cupboard. Could someone have posted the petals through the letterbox?’
‘That’s what I think.’ On the other end of the line, Theresa paused – presumably to look. ‘Yes. That must be it. But who?’
‘A secret admirer. So what are the noises?’
‘All quiet now. But half an hour ago, some couple was making a hell of a racket. It sounded as though they were killing one another.’
‘I gather they’re tourists,’ said Sally. ‘Maybe they’re on honeymoon, or a dirty weekend. Carol met the bloke, and he was warbling on about acoustics. Obviously worried that you’d be able to overhear their romantic dalliance.’
‘Oh yes. Once they get out of England people do go rather sex-mad, don’t they? Kinky stuff, I expect. Anyhow, it’s good to catch up, though I’m not sure if I’ll see you tomorrow or not. Until we find Chloe, I’m going to be rather distracted . . .’
‘It’s all right, Theresa. I understand.’
‘How’s it going your end?’
Sally knew that she couldn’t burden Theresa with her woes, so she replied, ‘Oh, I’m fine. But if you’re worried about the flat, Theresa, I’d put the chain on.’
‘Don’t worry, Sally. It’s already on. And I’ve got chairs balanced up against both doors. And tomorrow I’m getting the locks changed.’
After hanging up, Sally turned out the light and lay in the dark. Once more there were too many thoughts flitting through her mind to be able to settle down to sleep. She gazed out at the black horizon. A shaft of moonlight drew a neat, white, sparkling strip down the centre. In the distance she could see a brightly illuminated cruise ship sailing silently into port.
She hoped Chloe was safe. She remembered the worries her own two kids had put her through and dreaded that all starting again with a new generation.
With a groan, she faced the wall.
She had been such good friends with William and the others. But the vagaries of fortune at La Mosaïque had put paid to all that goodwill.
Sally wished again that she had never got involved in this stupid restaurant business. Thanks to it, she was sinking further and further into debt, both financially and socially.
Bloody William.
She wished he’d get off his high horse. True, she had not handled the last service very well, but surely everyone was entitled to an off-day? True, the restaurant was failing, but it wasn’t all her fault. Why blame everything on her? After all, William himself was no angel.
In fact now she wished that she had reminded him of his own failed night as a waiter.
Next time he started accusing her she was determined to fight back.
The phone rang again.
Sally turned over and grabbed the receiver.
‘NOW WHAT!’ Silence. ‘Hello? Hello?’
All she needed – a wrong number.
‘Hello?’
No doubt someone wanting a taxi to Monaco or some equally annoying misdial.
‘Hello?’ said Sally. ‘Sorry! Wrong number.’
She slammed the phone down. It rang again immediately.
‘It’s fucking three o’clock in the morning, you bastard.’
‘Sorry about that, Sally. These time zones always get me fuddled.’ A woman with an American accent.
‘Who is this?’ Sally was truly in the dark.
‘Is that Sally Doyle?’
‘Who wants to know?’ asked Sally.
‘It’s Marina Martel. I’m phoning from my offices in West Hollywood.’
Sally leaped out of bed and stood to attention.
This was Marina Martel, the Oscar-winning American movie star, on the other end of the line.
‘Now, Sally,’ Marina continued. ‘Here’s the thing . . . I’m sorry if it’s the middle of the night with you, but I have a little emergency, and you might be able to assist.’
Sally’s mind raced.
Why on earth should Marina Martel be needing her help?
‘I realise that last time things didn’t work out for you, because you’d just bought that lovely restaurant with the dazzling floor, but I’m sure that, over the last couple of years, things have settled down a little.’
Sally knew she couldn’t bore Marina Martel with the details of why that last phrase was so very wrong, so instead she simply said yes.
In fact ‘yes’ seemed to be the only word she had felt able to pronounce since she knew who was calling.
‘So, now, Sally.’
‘Yes.’
‘You remember me telling you how, when I was a kid stationed with my dad in the UK, how much I admired your work as an actress. How I caught up with all your stage work and got the videos of those classic plays you did before Ssssaturday Ssssslamerama!’
‘Yes.’
Sally could not imagine where this conversation was leading.
‘Well, the thing is, I have a little project going on over in your area,’ Marina Martel continued. ‘You’re not far from Monte Carlo, right?’
Sally once more let out a feeble yes.
‘You see, we’ve been rather badly let down.’
‘Right.’ Sally felt triumphant that she had managed to find a new response.
‘And, Sally, I would like you to take part in the filming, which starts tomorrow.’
Sally had images of herself doing the catering, serving in a commissariat or from the chuck wagon.
‘It’s only small, but it’s actually a wonderful part. And I want you to play it.’
Sally was dumbstruck.
‘She’s a nagging wife. Very funny role. And she always gets the last laugh. The husband’s a real twit. In fact they’re both a pair of bumblers. But they come out on top.’
‘But, Marina, I . . . I haven’t acted for years . . .’
‘Don’t be silly, Sally. As well you know, acting is just like riding a bike.’
‘But I can’t ride a bike.’
Marina guffawed down the line.
‘There you go! That is the character. I realise you’ll probably want to think about it, honey, but we’re very pressed and I really do need your answer in the next half hour. And, also, Sally, do you have email?’
Sally reeled it off. She didn’t think she could take up this job offer, but at least she could write her refusal to Marina Martel in an email reply. That would be much easier.
But Marina was still talking. ‘Of course I know you must realise that someone dropped out at the last minute. Stupid woman took herself off skiing at the weekend and is now laid up in some French hospital with two broken legs, a broken nose and a black eye, meaning she can’t walk, and even if we tried some trickery – shooting her in a wheelchair – her face looks as though she’s been in a prize fight. And certainly won’t settle before we finish the shoot. Oh, and by the way, it’s only a week’s shoot. All along the French and Italian Riviera. You’ll to have to reshoot the shots she’s already done, which will set us back a bit. Obviously it’s too late to get someone out there from Stateside without losing another couple of days, and so, as you’re right there, I immediately thought of you. If you say yes, you start shooting tomorrow morning. We’ll put you up in a lovely hotel, of course, but if you prefer to stay at home, naturally we’ll provide a car and per diems in lieu. It’s full Equity, but the fee’s not great. I don’t know if you have an agent . . .’
Sally’s mind now sped through all her old contacts in the business, wondering if any of them might negotiate this contract for her. She was shocked to realise that by now all of her old agents would probably have retired or maybe have died.
‘But it’s all pretty straightforward SAG rules and so on, Sally, a standard contract . . .’
Sally was once more thinking it would not be right for her to walk out on the others at La Mosaïque just so that she could follow her own dream.
After all, she had William breathing down her neck.
But then again, would another chance like this ever come up in her lifetime? She was almost sixty-five, for heaven’s sake. Time was running out.
But when things were going so badly, to let the others down …
‘I’m afraid the fee isn’t much to write home about, Sally. We’d pay you in euros or pounds, or whatever you like, but I’m afraid I could only offer you twenty-five thousand dollars.’